


I Want Something Else

by heckalotta



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Delinquent Keith (Voltron), Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Late 90s/Early 2000s AU, M/M, One Shot, References to Sex (but no actual sex), light internalized homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:54:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22568161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heckalotta/pseuds/heckalotta
Summary: There’s a rapid-fire, anxious tapping on Lance’s bedroom window. Stumbling through his messy room, he slides open the window, wincing at the loud clattering noise it makes.Hanging off the window ledge, a few minutes late, is that delinquent, motorcycle-driving bastard from his English class.Mama is gonna kill him.A late 90s/Early 2000s AU.
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 240





	I Want Something Else

**Author's Note:**

> _Warning: Mentioned used of the f-slur. Skip to the end notes for more context if necessary._
> 
> Thank you Liv for beta-reading! Much love.  
> Wrote this palette cleanser while working on something else. Enjoy!
> 
> Bonus points to whoever catches the the Inuyasha reference.

There’s a rapid-fire, anxious tapping on Lance’s bedroom window that has him fumbling away from where he’s seated at his desk. Stumbling through his messy room, he slides open the window, wincing at the loud clattering noise it makes.

Hanging off the window ledge, a few minutes late, is that delinquent, motorcycle-driving bastard from his English class.

Mama is gonna kill him.

“Pull me up,” he demands, scrabbling against the house's siding.

“Alright, alright!” Lance whisper-yells. “Just keep it down!” He grabs the other by the forearm, yanking him in. As soon as he’s cleared the sill, Lance is shutting the window behind him and locking it in place. He turns to face his guest.

He’s dressed in a tuque and a worse-for-wear jean jacket littered with pins and patches galore, most of them relevant to punk-rock bands that Lance recognizes but isn’t familiar with. His jeans are all but shredded at the knees, revealing bruised and scraped legs, and one of his shoes’ soles is hanging on purely through the miracle that is duct tape. Lance, in comparison, is dressed in sleeping shorts and a light shirt. Being a month into autumn, there’s a decent chill at night, but Lance’s top-floor room stays relatively hot.

“You parked your bike down the street, right?”

“Yes,” he grumbles. “If someone jacks it up or steals it, you're paying.”

“Whatever. As long as my mom doesn't see it.” God knows the asshole was lucky enough that Lance, through his endless generosity, even let him up. On this short notice and at this time of night, too! A last-minute text at 9:30 _PM_ doesn’t cut it for most people! “Did you bring your books, at least?”

“No,” he huffs. “How was I supposed to climb up to your room while holding onto them?”

“Use your backpack!”

He looks at the window skeptically. “I would _not_ fit through there with a backpack.”

“Are you kidding me?” Lance scoffs incredulously. “How would you know that?”

He gets a sly look in return. “This isn’t the first window I’ve snuck through.”

Lance, to his great dismay, feels himself flush something violent. “Yeah right, Kogane! Stop messing around and maybe I'll actually help you with some studying.”

Kogane shrugs, letting his jacket slide to the floor with the movement, joining the rest of the mess there. Lance grits his teeth with how at-home he immediately makes himself, but holds his tongue.

“Nice decor,” Kogane comments. To his endless ire, Lance flushes again. His room right now, in all honesty, looks like it’s been hit by a tornado. Clothing is scattered everywhere, there’s books and papers all over the desk parallel to his bed, which, speaking of his bed, is, by every definition of the word, unmade. The walls are the only clear things in the room, bar— “Interesting music taste you got there.”

Lance whips around to face the immaculately maintained ABBA poster hanging above his bed. “You wouldn’t know good taste in music if it walked up and slapped you in the face!” he hisses. “Which I am _not_ far off from doing!” Keith just grins, as if Lance’s outrage is hilarious to him. The jerk.

Honestly, Lance doesn’t know why Kogane’s come to him, of all people. He’s by no means pulling top marks in English, or, honestly, in any of his other classes, but does enough to get by with decent grades. He’s definitely not tutor material. Kogane’s marks, on the other hand, are all over the place. He’ll pull high 90s in one class and then completely flunk others. Lance wonders if it’s just a matter of actually putting in effort for him.

“Alright, sit down,” Lance says, gesturing to the chair situated at his desk. Kogane plops down in it backwards, crossing his arms over the top its back. Lance huffs, grabs his English books and sits face-to-face with Kogane on his bed.

“So, what do you need help with specifically?” Lance asks, flipping through the (very worn) pages of his copy of _Hamlet_ until he reaches the most recent act. He got it second hand so he could scribble and highlight through it without the teacher yelling at him. “I’m not done my notes for the last scene, so you’re on your own there.”

“It’s fine. I don’t usually take notes.”

Lance’s grip on the book increases tenfold.

“Alright,” he says curtly, “so what _do_ you do, then?”

“I just need you to explain what’s going on, really. I don’t— I’m not good with Shakespeare.”

Lance sighs. “I’m not the best at Shakespeare either, but I’ll try.”

They start a few acts back and slowly work their way to where they are in class. It’s not a slow process, but it’s not a fast one either. Kogane is a pretty quick learner once he grasps the basics of things, but he’s also prone to staying quiet when he doesn’t understand something, so Lance has to learn to read his body language to figure out if he’s following along or if he’s completely lost.

Lance thinks he’s got a pretty good system going. See, it’s all in the brows— those full, handsome brows that make his blood boil.

Anyway.

If he’s nodding along, keep going. Brows furrowed but still the occasional nod? Brain’s working overtime, but he’s still following. Brows fully furrowed, no nods? Explain it again. Looks like he’s having intricate murder fantasies about burning the book to ash? He’s just frustrated. Hard stop and take it from the top. It almost feels like a give-and-take situation. At some point, Kogane migrates over from the chair to sit next to Lance on the bed in order to see the book better.

Eventually, they get to a part of the play Kogane is particularly stuck on, and a heated debate ensues.

“I don’t know what there isn’t to get, Kogane!”

“You’re not explaining it good!” he snaps. “That’s not my fault!”

“ _‘Well’_. I’m not explaining it _well_ ,” Lance says, just to be an ass. Kogane honest to God snarls in response. Lance will never admit it to him, but it sends chills down his spine. “Geez, what are you, a dog or something, Kogane?” He grins, sharp and mean. “ _Down_ , boy.”

This, in hindsight, might’ve been a bad idea.  


Kogane shoves Lance down on the bed by the shoulders, pinning him to the mattress. This shuts Lance up real quick. Kogane’s body is rough and immoveable, demanding the space along his torso. Lance’s legs are splayed around him just to make room.

“ _Why_ ,” Kogane begins, incredibly fed up, “can’t you just call me by my first name?”  


_That’s what gets to him?_ Lance thinks.

“It’s— we’re not, like, _friends_ , or anything!” Okay, so not his strongest rebute.  


Kogane snorts and leans back. “God, you’re so contrived.”

“Oh, so you’re going to use a fancy word like _contrived_ and not know the difference between _good_ and _well?”_ Lance bitches.

“Since when did you join the grammar police?”

“Since when you started using it wrong!”  


Kogane stares down at him as if he’s personally trying to burn a hole in his skull. Or as if he’s about to devour him piece by piece. It’s now that Lance’s brain conveniently reminds him that he’s at the mercy of the guy who broke the arm of their school’s football captain, Michael Butler, behind a 7-Eleven once.

“You— for fuck’s sake, you piss me off so goddamn much sometimes,” Kogane says. “Makes me want to do something about it.”

Lance accepts that he’s going to his grave early. Then Kogane kisses him.

Lance jolts so bad that he slams his head back against the wall at the head of the bed. The ABBA poster wobbles disapprovingly.

Lance opens his mouth to begin making a scene, but when he sees the guilty look on Kogane’s face, the air in his lungs leaves him like a balloon deflating.

“You kissed me,” he says quietly. Kogane looks away.

“Sorry. I’ll leave now.” He climbs off the bed and picks up his jacket, making for the window.

“W-wait! Ko—” _oh, to hell with it,_ “Keith!” Keith freezes where he stands, jacket in hand.

“It, uh, wasn’t a bad thing…” Lance admits sheepishly.

Keith turns around, surprised. “You mean that?”

“You just startled me, that’s all. I thought you were gonna attack me or something.”

Keith raises an eyebrow. “Where’d you get that idea?”

“You broke Michael Butler’s arm behind a 7-Eleven! The only reason you didn’t get expelled for it was because it was off school property!”

Keith snorts, as if the whole event was trivial. “That situation is completely unrelated. I’m not some arm-breaking maniac.”

Lance looks at him skeptically. “Dude…”

“If he didn’t want trouble then maybe he shouldn’t have called me a faggot, huh?” Keith snaps. He then deflates, suddenly exhausted. “People already think I’m weird. I don’t need him adding to that.”

“Oh… I didn’t know.” Lance shamefully re-evaluates all the things he’s thought about Keith.

“Yeah, well,” Keith says, sounding defeated. “That was the point. I made sure he wouldn’t say shit to anyone else about it.”

Lance sighs and shifts where he sits so his legs hang over the side of the bed. “Well, sit down,” he says, patting the space next to him, “and we’ll finish studying.”

Keith makes an aborted movement, almost immediately taking Lance up on the offer, but hesitating halfway.

“So we’re just not gonna talk about what just happened?”

Lance draws his feet up onto the bed bashfully and hides behind his copy of _Hamlet_. “If you finish studying, we can talk about it all you want.” His voice cracks on the last word. Regardless, it seems to do the trick. Keith all but flies over to him, leaving his jacket to fend for itself.

“Chill out!” Lance squawks, smacking him with the book. Keith just laughs.

🙜

A few hours later, Lance is putting away his books, feeling satisfied that Keith has learned enough to get him through the test they have tomorrow. Now they get to talk. About their feelings.

Lance rummages the papers around his desk, dawdling around to avoid the inevitable. He thinks he manages to look purposeful, but when he hears Keith laugh behind him, he knows he’s failed.

“Something tells me that your desk will live if you wait until tomorrow to clean it.”

“I don’t like your attitude,” Lance says without turning around, taking his sweet time to file one more paper.

Keith chuckles. “Sure you don’t.”

Lance eeps as he feels Keith press up from behind him and grab a handful of papers.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Lance hisses, trying to catch Keith’s eye from over his shoulder.

“Helping,” Keith answers, tapping the papers into order on the desk. “There. All done.” He stands up straight, but isn’t generous with giving back any personal space. Lance prays for mercy and turns around.

He’s practically nose-to-nose with Keith, who is aggravatingly unbothered about the whole situation. In fact, he apparently lives to make everything in Lance’s life as difficult as possible, as Keith’s hands dip to encircle his waist.

“You’ve got a tiny waist,” he comments.

“D-didn’t notice!” Lance yelps.

Keith laughs quietly. “I thought we were supposed to keep the noise down.”

“I think we messed that one up the second you got here. Besides, you should know by now that everything I do is loud.”

A devilish smirk crosses Keith’s face. “Everything?”

“Oh my god, shut up,” Lance squeaks. He wriggles free of Keith’s grip and ducks behind him to sit on the bed. Keith, instead of following, plunks back down on the chair again.

“You wanted us to talk?” Lance asks, looking down and fiddling with his hands.

“I mean, I’m not about to give a speech. I just wanted to establish some boundaries.”

“Moving pretty fast, huh?” Lance quips. For the first time this night, he manages to embarrass Keith.

“I mean… I kissed you and you wanted me to stick around so I assumed…”

“No, I am, uh, interested,” Lance interjects before Keith can second-guess himself.

“Okay.”

They’re quiet for a moment, both looking away and neither quite sure what to say.

“So, what do you want?” Keith breaks the silence.

“Uh?”

“I don’t know what you want out of… _this_.” Keith gestures between the two of them.

Lance flounders for an answer. “Well, what do _you_ want?”

“Whatever you want.”

Lance pulls at his hair. “That doesn’t help!”

“Okay, how about this,” Keith begins. “Do you want something long-term or not?”

“As opposed to _what?”_

Keith gives him a flat look.

Lance’s cheeks flame. “O-oh. Um. I don’t want _that_ — not right now. Or, uh—”

“Calm down. We don’t have to,” Keith says, moving from the chair to sit next to Lance. “Let’s start here.” He tilts his chin over gently, leans in, and they’re kissing again.

🙜

Lance takes a few steadying breaths as Keith pulls away and slides his hands out from under Lance’s shirt, sitting back on his knees. The two are laying above Lance’s sheets, Keith on top of Lance and between his legs.

“Okay,” Lance says, somewhat breathless. Damn, Keith’s a decent kisser.

Keith, who had been drifting off, snaps his eyes back on him. “‘Okay’?”

“Let’s do this again sometime.”

Keith laughs. “Alright.” He flops to the side, settling down beside Lance.

“Hey, how come you asked me to help you study anyway? I’m not an A+ student or anything.”

Keith hesitates. “You’re… nice. I don’t think a lot of people would say yes to helping me through their window to study in the middle of a Sunday night.”

“What? Why not?”

“I’m not exactly popular, Lance. A lot of people don’t like me. You only _pretend_ to not like me.”

Lance leans over onto Keith to jab him in the chest with a vindictive finger. “Who said I was _pretending?”_

“Oh, I don’t know, the guy who was making out with me five minutes ago?”

Lance’s eyes go wide. He hides his face against Keith.

“I hate you.”

“Sure you do.”

Lance peeks his head up. “Wait. How many windows have you snuck through?”

“What is this, 20 Questions?”

“It is now.”

Keith flicks Lance. “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

“No, I really think it is,” Lance stresses. In lieu of a response, Keith levers himself up and over Lance, feet landing on the floor. “Hey! Where’re you going?”

“Speaking of sneaking through windows, I should really get going.”

Lance’s mood falls. “Oh. Why?”

“It’s a Sunday, remember?” Keith answers, pulling on his jacket. “Don’t look at the clock. You don’t want to know how late it is.”

Lance looks anyway.

“Oh my God, you dick! We have a test first period tomorrow!”

“I told you,” Keith shrugs. He pulls at the bottom of the window, but it doesn’t budge.

“Oh, here,” Lance says, getting out of bed. “I locked it earlier when you came in.” He flicks the lock and opens the window. “There,” he says, turning around to face Keith, hands on his hips. Keith just stares at him, all weird and intense again.

“What?” Lance asks. “Something on my face?”

Keith blinks out of his stupor. “A little lower.” Before Lance can question what _that_ means, he pulls Lance into a brief kiss, and then ducks out the window. Lance watches to make sure he climbs down safely, and continues to watch as he jogs across the front lawn.

“Okay, bed now,” Lance mumbles to himself. Instead, he stays in place until Keith’s motorcycle pulls out of sight.

**Author's Note:**

> >>Keith mentions a time where a classmate calls him by the f-slur in order to demean him. Keith also worried that he would be forcibly outed by said student, but that doesn't happen.
> 
> Thanks for reading this! Leave a comment to let me know what you thought, if you feel so inclined :)
> 
> If anyone's wondering, Lance is eighteen and Keith is nineteen-- either doing a victory lap, or started school a year late.
> 
> _Edit [02/09/20]_  
>  Hey! Thank you so much to everyone who's left a kind comment, they mean a lot :)
> 
> I've been getting some questions about a possible continuation to this. Honestly, writing this was pretty spur of the moment, so I don't have any sort of follow-up in mind. However, because of the positive feedback, it's definitely something I'll consider writing! Thanks again everyone :)


End file.
